Waltz of the Wicked
by Nikkel
Summary: Jet could see her across the dance floor, swirling and red and gold and beautiful... All he needed to do was work up the courage to be with her. Jetzula, oneshot.


**Waltz of the Wicked**_  
By Nikkel_  
(c) to Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino, and Bryan Konietzko

* * *

_Movements of a demigod_

_We're caught in a waltz, and I hope we dance forever_

_A dream from which we'll never part _

_And awake from your arms_

_I'd never_

_Ever

* * *

_

To tell the truth, Jet didn't even know why he was here. Fire Nation royal galas were not his thing.

He sat at the bar, swirling sake 'round and 'round in the bottom of his cup. He had his back turned to the live orchestra, the ballroom dancers, the returned Prince; he was apathetic about it all. It was a party. So what. Just because he had been cordially invited by the Fire Lord did not mean the he had to enjoy it.

Maybe it was the liquor that was making him bitter, or that his thirst for violence was not yet quenched. Serving as a soldier in the Fire Nation army and working his way up the ranks, he had seen his fair share of bloodshed, but something inside him continually harked that it was never enough. Every time he had thrown a squadron into battle, there was always something. . . off. A missing piece.

He knew his memories were jumbled, his mind distorted—like someone had crushed his past into one thousand glass shards and hidden them in the desert sand. He didn't remember much, but of what he did, there was a fire, a flashing light, and a dungeon. He wouldn't have even remembered his own name, had it not been for the man that had found him. . .

"Yo," Jet called to the bartender, holding his empty cup out. "Hit me."

The bartender eyed him with upper-class fervor. "It's nine o'clock, sir. Don't you think you should—"

"Gimme the damn drink."

The bartender swiped the cup and went to fill it up. Jet swiveled in his seat, facing the expansive dance floor. All kinds of dresses, gowns, and skirts twirled around in the air, the wearers swaying to the tsungi tune. One or two of them were rather appealing, Jet had to admit; the one with the exposed leg or the low neckline could tease him all night.

"Evenin', Jet. How's that sake?" A fellow officer, Quin Lee, slapped Jet on the back. Jet mumbled and turned away from the ladies to down his liquor again. Quin Lee did not remove his hand, leaning over his shoulder. "You should ask one of these girls to dance, dude. This one girl, On Ji, she's _so hot_!"

"I know, I know." Jet sipped the sake, the alcohol searing his insides with hot pleasure. "But apparently I'm too _drunk_ to do anything."

"Don't beat yourself down like that. Cheer up! We can find you a girl. It's not that hard. You just gotta womanize 'em a little."

Jet sighed. He had managed to down his cup over a few sentences. He gave up, and may as well have waited for the bartender to fill it again. "Fine. I'll get a woman."

"That's the spirit." Together, Quin Lee and Jet observed the dance floor. It didn't take long for Quin Lee to ask, "Hey, how about her? She looks like your kind o' game."

Quin Lee pointed at a woman with a dark braid down her bare back, her skin tanned chestnut color. Jet was distinctly reminded of someone, maybe someone he once knew. . . but memories were useless. "No. Too foreign."

"What about that one?"

"She's taller than me."

"So?"

"So _no_."

"Hmm. . . her?"

"Too upper-class."

"How about her?"

"She's pretty, but she can't dance. Look at her feet! They're huge!"

"Haha, yeah. Um. . . that one."

"I'm looking for a dance partner, not a hooker."

"Geez. You're so picky."

"I have my preferences."

"No, what I'm saying is, you really don't seem like the picky type. Women walk by and drop at your feet, but you don't even look at them! You should be a pimp right now, not some loser at the bar."

"If you came here to piss me off, it's working," Jet snarled, downing another sake.

"Sorry. Let's keep looking."

Jet sighed and gave in to his friend's suggestions. He sat leaned back in his chair, bored, drunk, and growing even more depressed as time elapsed.

Until he saw _her_.

_Ivory skin, crimson gown, gold bangles, ebony hair, raspberry lips, amber eyes, nimble feet, slender figure, sharp nails, elegant curves. . ._

"How about her?" Quin Lee asked, pointing in a completely different direction.

"No." Jet shook his head absentmindedly.

_. . . Smooth jaw, straight posture, regal tongue, small ears, toned stomach, red heels, prim nose, athletic shoulders, feminine ankles, delicate collarbone. . ._

". . . that one?" Quin Lee asked again, and then he realized that Jet was tuning him out entirely. "Jet? Jet? _Helloooo_. . ."

Quin Lee waved a hand in front of his face. Jet only blinked, transfixed by the appearance of the mysterious woman. He did not want to lose sight of her.

"Who is she. . .?" Jet asked softly, like a man under a spell, hypnotized and dumbfounded. She was beautiful, and sexy, and. . .

"That? Oh, that's Mai, she's—"

"No. The other one. In red."

"Ahh. Why didn't you tell me you like women in red? I could've picked—"

"You idiot!" Jet shouted. "Not just any woman in red, but _that one_!" He grabbed Quin Lee by the shirt collar and sharply pointed at the woman. Quin Lee looked over.

"Oh," he realized. "Wait. Whoa, whoa, _whoa_. There's no way you're getting her. Forget it, buddy."

Jet's hold on him tightened. "_What_? Are you saying you _know_ her or something?"

"No! It's just. . ." Quin Lee swallowed hard, a bead of sweat dripping off his brow.

"Just _what_?"

"That's. . . That's the Crown Princess. Princess Azula."

Jet let him go. He glanced at the girl. She was younger than she looked, but he could tell even from afar that she was as mature as any aged man. She was speaking with the generals, her hip thrown out to the side, her hand raised and cupping her chin, as if she were telling a most intriguing tale. Jet yearned to hear what words poured from her lips.

"I'm going to talk to her," he decided, and started to get off his chair, but Quin Lee held him back.

"Wait," he said. "Look."

A _very_ well-dressed man in black robes and a face chiseled of stone walked up beside Azula. He wrapped a large, possessive hand on her waist, pulling her close to him. Jet's brow furrowed.

"Who is he?" he demanded.

"Her father. Fire Lord Ozai."

Jet glanced at the five-pronged crown resting proudly in the topknot of the man's head. Something awful twisted in his stomach as Ozai and Azula exchanged too-friendly glances.

"Are they. . .?"

"No one really knows," Quin Lee stated, knowing exactly what his friend was thinking. "But the rumor has it that he's the only one she ever dances with. And it's always the dance at the end of the night."

Jet nodded, taking this information in. He still couldn't take his eyes off the Princess. . . She was so. . . composed. An empress of her own body. A goddess. Was it bad that he wanted to worship her?

He was going to have to drink a lot more sake.

Quin Lee left him to drink in peace. He thought he had left Jet downhearted, but this was not true—Jet had found his inspiration, and his obsession. He couldn't stop looking at _her_. He didn't even _know_ her, and yet. . . it sent his mind over the edge, plummeting himself in liquor until he had a warm belly of courage. Jet didn't consider rejection—creepy father or no, he was determined to steal her attention, whether it be half a second or. . . pleasurably, _the rest of the night_. To world's end. He didn't care. A simple glance, a sideways look, a fleeting gesture. . . anything, _anything_.

It took two hours to collect the bravery he needed. Yes, he was slightly drunk (hopefully he could still dance), but this was not the case. He wanted to catch her alone. Azula would talk to the nobles, the generals, the merchants, the sages; when she was done, she walked alone to another group, but each time he would get up, his body would be paralyzed by the sight of her. By the time she was done watching her dress billowing behind her, she was already talking to someone. And if not that, she would retire for a while in her palanquin, shrouded in rose-colored drapes, sitting next to her father and brother. Jet knew he couldn't go in there.

The orchestra announced their final song of the night. It was now or never.

Jet hopped off the bar stool and joined a gathering crowd in the center of the ballroom. He pushed his way up front, his heart going rather fast for having drunk so much, but eagerness was what kept him going. He would dance with Azula, he was going to make certain of it, but. . . it was too late. Azula was going to dance with her father, like always.

Ozai and Azula stood in the center of the floor. The Fire Lord held up a majestic hand.

"Allow me to say this," he announced. "I am very proud of my daughter this evening. She has taken down Ba Sing Se, the Great Walled City, and has been my most faithful ally and companion since the disappearance of my wife. Azula. . ."

During the speech, Azula was smirking, absolutely agreeing with what her father had to say. After a while, however, this smirk faded as Ozai rambled not only about her accomplishments, but that of the Fire Nation's. Despite the commanding voice and royal stature, the Fire Lord's words became monotonous and dull. A couple of people yawned. Some checked their sundial watches. The musicians drooped in their seats.

And the next thing Jet knew, his hand was on Azula's hip.

Silence descended the hall. Jet's mind drew a blank, the Princess looked confusedly at him, the crowd stood in quiet awe, and the Fire Lord slowly turned his head to the young soldier boy. Jet whipped his head around, mouth slack, when Ozai raised his hand to make another announcement.

"I believe a final tune is in order."

And the waltz began.

The tsungi horns embraced the night's summer atmosphere, adjoining the luring harp and skipping violins; the heartstrings of angels dressed in shimmering gold and scarlet. Jet took her hand—her crimson gloves in his black—and strolled along the harmony with the steps of a drunken lover. He was enveloped by the music, drinking the sight of the Princess in more than any liquor, and it fascinated him that she wouldn't take her eyes off him. This was when she leaned in, her lips pressed close to his ear.

"What are you doing?"

Her words made his voice freeze in his throat. So demanding. They twirled, and he noticed a slight burning sensation to his wrist as she held it. Firebender. He should have known. They reunited, and she whispered it again.

"Tell me what you're doing, _now_."

He had not been consciously thinking of it, but a natural smile came to his lips, like a familiar ghost of long ago.

"Dancing. With you."

They twirled again, and with a swift movement, he bent her over, her neck exposed and her back breached. He caught her roll her eyes in the process. They shifted back up so her chest was against his.

"_Obviously_. And stop looking at my breasts."

Jet chuckled. "That's a little difficult to do."

"Do you want to keep dancing?"

"Yes."

"Then you'll do as I say."

And he did, taking a slight step to allow her to lead, her pace quicker, more defined. Jet relished a challenge, keeping to the melodic tempo, eyes continually locked with hers; dark chocolate and caramel. She chuckled as he stayed in line, not even having to watch her feet, as if he were an expert at the dance.

"Having fun yet?"

"I'm kind of bored, actually."

Her lips met his ear again. "Then let's heat things up."

The music picked up and they moved faster, Azula's dress sweeping behind her as a phoenix in flight, Jet's steps brave and divine, until it was a competition for the lead. Other people had joined them on the floor, but there were eyes still locked on the two teens, fighting for the dominance of the waltz when the orchestra reached its crescendo, battling dragons masquerading as lovers on high.

Jet was sweating and Azula was panting when it was over.

The gala was done. People were disbanding and preparing to leave, including Azula, but he kept his hand on her waist, his head tilted curiously.

"Will you dance before the night ends? Just one more time?"

She smirked, eyes gleaming. Teasing. "No, thank you."

"C'mon. One more."

". . . Only on a certain condition."

"What's that?"

"Don't tell me your name."

"Why n—"

"Because. . ." Azula leaned up to him, her arms around his neck, and her lips at his ear again. "It turns me on to dance with someone I don't even know."

Jet grinned, and they danced the night away.

* * *

_Adrenaline_

_The confirmation_

_Losing to the charm_

_In my arms_

_In my arms

* * *

_

**Author's Note: **I wrote this some time ago, and edited some of it... I really wondered if I should post it or not, because I was (and still sorta am) afraid it was a little OOC for Jet. I don't know, you tell me. Once again, this is another theory of What Happened To Jet If He Lived... in this one, he'd have no memory, and end up serving the Fire Nation... Ironic, isn't it? Maybe I should expand on this idea... Oh, and the lyrics you see posted are from the song "Dublin Waltz" by Monty Are I. They're pretty awesome.


End file.
